"Didn't you feel as if it was a battle, and you wanted to beat them all?"
He broke out laughing. "Why the examiner was an old man, as dry as a
stick! And the others—I hardly remember what they were like—except one,
a white-headed boy with a pimply face. I couldn't help noticing him,
because, whenever I looked up, there he was at the next table, staring
at me and chewing a quill."
"I can't understand," she confessed. "Often and often I have tried to
think myself a man—a man with ambition. And to me that has always meant
fighting. I see myself a man, and the people between me and the prize
have all to be knocked down or pushed out of the way. But you don't even
see them—all you see is a pimply-faced boy sucking a quill. Taffy——"
"What is it, Honoria?"
"I wish you would write to me, when you get to Oxford. Write regularly.
Tell me all you do."
"You will like to hear?"
"Of course I shall; so will George. But it's not only that. You have
such an easy way of going forward; you take it for granted you're going
to be a great man——"
"I don't."
"Yes, you do. You think it just lies with yourself, and it is nobody's
business to interfere with you. You don't even notice those who are
on the same path. Now a woman would notice every one, and find out all
about them."
"Who said I wanted to be a great man?"
"Don't be silly, that's a good boy. There's your father coming out of
the church-porch, and you haven't told him yet. Run to him, but promise
first."
"What?"
"That you will write."
"I promise."
(To be continued.)